


You Know, My Darling, I Can't Stand To Sleep Alone

by geckoholic



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Batfamily Feels, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major Character Undeath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 22:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16774252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Dick dies. It's a simple traffic accident, and Jason doesn't know whether that makes it easier or harder to deal with the loss. He distances himself from the family, and so he's rather surprised to get a summon to Wayne Manor a year later. What he finds there is Dick... and it kind of really isn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comes with gorgeous art by crow-sizna, which will be placed throughout the story and can also be found [HERE](https://crow-sizna.tumblr.com/post/180600073478/i-had-the-big-honor-to-draw-those-artworks-for). Crow's an angel by the way, who teamed up with me on a half-done fic and a haphazard concept, didn't even yell at me when I had to postpone this fic again and again, and then made the STUNNING illustrations on rather short notice. Thank you very much for having me, you're as wonderful as your art! ♥ 
> 
> And in case that's of interest, the sex in this story happens early on, before Dick's death, when both parties are still in a state for full and informed consent. Later on there's a kiss, but imo nothing that would cross into actual dubcon. 
> 
> Beta-read by beta-lactamase. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Sleep Alone" by Bat For Lashes.

There are times when even Gotham is beautiful. For example, late summer, early evening, just after a thunderstorm. The streets look like they're steaming as the rain evaporates from sun-warmed asphalt. She's not shiny, like other cities, but it's times like these that she's got character. Jason and Dick are watching from up high, perched on a fire ladder in a back alley and waiting for their cue. The cityscape is backlit by the setting sun, the sky thrown into high contrast by the heavy clouds that still linger, and for a moment Gotham just about manages to disguise the fact that she's a devilish hellhole – might almost feel like home. Jason's sure that's going to be a fleeting feeling, though. She'll show them her ugly underbelly again soon enough, likely before the night is over; they're here to prepare the take out of a ring of human traffickers, after all. He'll come out of the day wanting to punch someone, he's rather sure.

But for now, Jason's still smiling fondly at the sight in front of them, and Dick nudges Jason's shoulder with his foot, sitting a few steps higher than him on the ladder. “What's got you so happy?”

The chances he'll admit to Dick that he sometimes, even for a second, almost kinda _likes_ Gotham are about zero. He'll never live that down, and so he opts for an answer that will also be filed away for later teasing, but might at least book points towards his chances of getting laid after they return home. Plus, it's not really a lie, either.

“You,” he says and looks up, grinning at Dick, who gives him another nudge and dutifully rolls his eyes.

“Oh Jay,” he replies, even though it's clear in his expression that he assumes Jason's taking the piss at him. “You're gonna be so disappointed when the honeymoon phase is over and I'll start annoying the ever-loving fuck out of you.”

Jason shrugs. “Who says you're not annoying me now?”

Dick winds back his foot again, but this time Jason catches it and tugs. Just a bit, not enough to make him lose his balance, but as a signal to come a little further down. Because he's nice like that, Jason even scoots to make room on his rung of the ladder and give him somewhere to put his feet. He smiles at Dick's long-suffering, exaggerated sigh, and then Dick's there, legs pressed to Jason's shoulder, bending down. Jason, on his part, angles his head up. The kiss tastes like coffee and candy – Dick made them stop at a corner kiosk on the way here – and Jason sincerely doubts that moments like these will ever stop making him light-headed. They've been official for roughly six months, with a much longer buildup, and being with Dick has yet to lose its shine or novelty. Jason hopes it never will; he's never felt so calm or so tethered. There's an acid pit inside his soul, and Dick somehow figured out how to keep it at bay – bind it into something bearable, just by being around.

Their comm line crackles to life, white-noise static giving way to Kate's voice after a few seconds. “We've sighted the trucks,” she says. “Everyone, be ready.”

Dick pulls back. Jason resists the urge to chase him, demand they delay their response so Dick can keep kissing him just a few moments longer. No room for games with what's at stake tonight, and the time for distractions is over.

“We're in position,” Jason confirms, his final treat watching the way Dick licks the spit off his slick, slightly kiss-swollen lips. “Just say the word.”

Jason's hand goes down to his leg holster, usual outfit replaced with a spear gun. Steph is down there posing with a broken down car, and it'll be his job to make sure the trucks don't get moving again once they've stopped to help her. A team effort, designed to keep things quiet and the casualties low on either side. He's still getting used to that.

With one last reassuring smile in Jason's direction, Dick takes off in the opposite direction. He's going right into the fray with Bruce and Kate, of course. Jason tries, yet again, not to take it personally – they trust him to get the job done, but he's still newly fitting in. Still proving himself. Bruce bears grudges, and if he ignores the hurt it causes, Jason understands. Being part of this team means Bruce trusting him with everything that's most precious to him, and Jason can't quite blame him for double and triple checking Jason's intentions, for extending his probation again and again.

It still does hurt, though. But this is also the wrong time and the wrong place to dwell on _that_.

Jason takes off to take his position behind the shipping containers, gesturing a hello to Steph on his way down. She nods by the way of a reply, phone by her ear, pretending to be busy with a call. She's already gesturing wildly, telegraphing her upset to everyone who might be watching. And she's not subtle.

Her thug in shinning armor appears three minutes later, a brute of guy, tall, semi-impressive muscles threatening to tear a shirt that he likely bought two sizes too small on purpose. Jason thinks he even spots a gold necklace and snorts to himself. Cliches exist for a reason, he supposes.

Just as planned, after a brief exchange and lots of distressed wallowing on Steph's part, he takes her into the warehouse and leaves her alone in there while he comes back out to have a look at the car. Tim will be sticking close to take a few snapshots of him putting in his security code, and if all goes well, Steph is right now mining whatever intel she can gain access to inside.

The guy leans over the hood, whistling happily about his lady-saving for the day, and Jason settles in to wait; their manipulations to the car should take about ten or fifteen minutes to fix. Best case scenario, they can all go home after that and catch the vigilante version of a good night's sleep before they come back here tomorrow night and raise hell around the traffickers.

The colorful, definitely misogynistic slur the guy shouts a moment later was not part of the plan.

He caught the ruse. He throws the hood down with another emphatic curse to Steph's reputation and stalks back inside, and Jason is on high alert. She didn't have enough time. He'll find her still roaming around their files and computers, he'll notify his bosses, they'll move out and move on, and that's ignoring the possibility of her getting in trouble, alone, with only partial armor under her clothes... Jason's mind races. He needs to _do_ something.

He's not the only one who had that thought.

Dick sails down from the roof and runs into the building, ignoring Bruce's shouting on the comm line, and Jason's blood turns to ice in his veins. If Bruce, of all people, considers a move to be unacceptably reckless, then it really is a shit idea. All they have so far about what's waiting in that warehouse are assumptions, that's why they opted for a scouting mission like this in the first place. For all they know, an attacker, a vigilante, could be shot on sight as soon as he steps inside the narrow hallway. Step can still argue she didn't know, play dumb, but Dick's arrival will inevitably turn the situation hostile.

Everyone is talking over each other on the comms, Bruce yelling, Kate chastising him, Tim trying to get an answer from Steph as his ex-whatever-they-are-these-days, and Jason puts them on mute. They won't like what he's about to do, either.

He runs into the warehouse, after Dick and Steph, and from the hallway he already hears the sounds of a fight. If they scouted this correctly, then there should be three thugs here, at most, guarding the empty warehouse before tonight's _shipment_ will be brought in. Three guys with guns can still do plenty of damage, if things go further south, and Jason runs, listening for the direction of the noise.

They're winning. One thug is already out cold on the ground, and both Dick and Steph seem to have gained the upper hand in their one-on-one fights. It took their toll, though; Dick's face is bruised under the domino, bleeding from a laceration on his forehead, and Steph's shirt is torn and bloody at the neck. Jason tosses her a taser from his belt and runs towards Dick, knocking the guy who's been up against him with an elbow to the neck.

“Thanks,” Dick says, grinning. Behind them the taser is activated, and Steph cheers in victory.

Jason just glares at Dick and nods towards the door. “Shut up. Let's just get out of here.”

***

“You're so _stupid_ ,” Jason snarls just as soon as the apartment door has fallen shut behind them. It's the only safe thing to say, something that doesn't equal _you're reckless and I love you and you can't keep risking your life like that because your death would kill us both_ , because that would be ridiculous.

Dick isn't having it either way, sneers right back at him. “Shut up. She was alone in there. Like you weren't about to do the same thing.”

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, maybe he kind of did something similar just a soon as it was Dick's life on the line, but that's beside the point and Jason doesn't really feel like arguing. He's not bad with words in general, he's articulate, it's just one of many skills he absorbed from many sources, but they're not enough right now.

“Take that suit off,” he says, because he's got a better idea: he'll make them both _feel_ this. They still misunderstand each other plenty when it's verbal. No such problems in the bedroom; skin on skin, so close not a sheet of paper would fit between them, that's a language they've worked on perfecting.

Head cocked, Dick stares him down. For a moment it's fifty-fifty on whether he'll huff and storm out of what is, technically, still only his place, or comply. Dick is unpredictable, whimsical. He's high maintenance, difficult, except for when he isn't. Sometimes Jason loves that. Sometimes it drives him insane.

Dick deflates, and Jason will never know whether it's the leftover adrenaline that must still be buzzing underneath Dick's skin like it does underneath his own, or simply a lack of interest in an argument when they could spend what's left of their night with an activity far more pleasant. He lets out a breath and pulls the upper half of his suit over his head, bends to peel out of the rest until he's standing there with his hands on his hips and an already visible bulge in his boxers, and Jason takes a moment to appreciate the view before he begins shedding clothes as well.

Even though it wasn't his idea, now that he's signed onto it Dick seems impatient. He shifts from foot to foot, gaze passing over Jason's body like a touch, and Jason's barely out of jacket and track pants when Dick captures his hand and damn near drags him towards the bedroom. Jason understands, though; the near miss must have gotten to him too, and now he'll want to feel alive. They've both been there several times before, have fucked each other through a desire to feel their bodies thrumming with life.

There's no need to switch the lights on; it's more morning than night at this point and the room is already dipped in soft light. And that's nice, because it paints these pretty little shadows onto Dick's body, makes it even more fun to watch him shed his boxers and position himself on the bed like an offering: he kneels down, bends forward so his head rests on his crossed arms, showing off that singularly gorgeous ass without any semblance of shame. And as if that wasn't enough, he's already moaning, throwing a glance over his shoulder to watch Jason watching him; gets off on being seen. Jason fumbles with the various buckles and buttons on his outfit, fine motor skills already about to leave the building, curses under his breath even as he refuses to take his eyes off Dick for a single second. It takes twice as long as it should, getting naked, and then he's on the bed, on his knees behind Dick, reaching for the bedside drawer to organize condoms and lube while he's still halfway thinking straight. He thumbs the bottle open and squirts some into his palm. At least that's what he's aiming for. No small portion of it gets on the bed, impatience making him uncoordinated, and he hears Dick chuckle, looking smug and widening his legs further. Showy bastard. Although that's not news – they've already established that Dick delights in the knowing he can throw Jason off balance.

Jason presses the first lubed finger into him, though, and that derails his self-satisfied expression pretty quick. The next part is practiced and instinctual, working him open, Jason's other hand rubbing small circles into his hip while he watches his reactions. Dick's sense of self-preservation fails him in this instance too, and he'll accept being just a little bit hurt if it gets him to where he wants to go that much faster. But Jason doesn't want to hurt him, not even as a small detour towards pleasure, and so he ignores the insistent wiggle of Dick's hips, takes his time, doesn't call this done and reach for the condom before he's _sure_ Dick really is ready.

He lines up, looking down at the long, elegant arch of Dick's back, the curve of his ass, the sheer stunning beauty of everything he is and everything he does, and he has to close his eyes for a second against the wave of pleasure and possessive pride that washes through him as he first pushes in. Dick lets out a loud, dirty moan, makes to straighten up, but Jason holds him down with a hand on the small of his back, stilling him. He keeps it there until he's inside him all the way, and then he tips forward, pressed to Dick's body chest to back, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other smoothing down Dick's arms in order to get Dick on hands and knees again so he can twine their fingers together and hold him even closer while he delivers short, languid thrusts.

“Stop teasing.” Dick groans again, sucks in a breath. "Plus, you're heavy."

Immediately Jason makes to let up, give him more room, but Dick squeezes his hand.

"That wasn't a complaint," he says, pushing back against him. Jason thrusts on instinct, quick, sharp, causing him to lean on Dick a little more, and Dick makes a breathless, desperate kind of noise. “Fuck, yes. Like that.”

Things get a little hazy after that, lost in pleasure, in the intoxicating pull of feeling Dick everywhere, around his cock, Dick's body molded to his own and moving against him. He's not going to last very long, and he sighs with contentment when Dick cranes his neck and asks for a kiss, barely able to get the words out. It's sloppy and uncoordinated, stealing each other's breath more than anything else, the angle is terrible, and it's not long before they have to come up for air.

Jason picks up the pace, quick and hard thrusts that have Dick rocking forward each time. He feels his orgasm approaching way too soon, and he tightens his hold around Dick's chest, pulling them both into an upright position. Dick hisses out his discontent, but falls silent pretty quickly as Jason slides their joined hands down his belly, getting them around his cock. Dragging his thumb over the wet mess at the tip, Jason jerks him off in the same unforgiving rate as his thrusts. In response, Dick clenches around him, and Jason couldn't say if it's purposeful or an involuntary reaction; either way, it does the trick, and Jason's coming, face pressed to the back of Dick's neck, fights to keep the up the rhythm of their hands jerking Dick off and make him follow. He stops trusting, lets Dick take from him what he needs so long as he's still hard, and he feels it when Dick's climax peaks, too, feels his whole body tighten and release moments before he spills all over their hands.

They breath in tandem until it occurs to Jason that this position is going to get uncomfortable fast as soon as arousal recedes, and he uses his grip around Dick's torso to maneuver them both onto the bed, laid out on the side. Dick purrs out a few words Jason doesn't catch, and turns in his arms when no answer comes forth.

“I said,” he repeats. “We're getting pretty good at that.”

Jason gives him a nonchalant shrug. “Practice makes perfect.”

In lieu of a reply, Dick smiles, breathing still ragged and face still flushed, and fuck, Jason might have just had him but he _wants_ , wants him always, and it's disappointing to concede that neither of them is in any state for another round after the night they've had.

He settles for reaching out and stroking his thumb down the side of Dick's neck, pulling him in for a kiss, and he whines with the loss when Dick gets off the bed to go to the bathroom and clean up. Jason's eyes are growing heavy, but he waits, forces himself to stay away until Dick is back, back on the bed and back in his arms, and he falls asleep to the sound of Dick's breathing mixed with the rain that's prattling against the windows again.

***

When he wakes up, Jason finds himself halfway draped over Dick's back, head pillowed between Dick's shoulder blades. He considers moving, but opts against it; the shared body heat is nice, and if Dick were uncomfortable, he'd woken up a while ago and shaken him off.

He turns his head, squinting out of the window. The city is hidden by a sheet of gray, sounds of cars dashing through puddles is audible due to the tilted bedroom windows. And it's gotten colder; he's freezing a little, even with Dick as a body pillow. Might be because the comforter is pooled around his hip, one leg stuck out, and he shifts just enough to kick the comforter back into place and at least have his feet nice and toasty. The small movement, however, seems to have jarred Dick awake, because he's stirring underneath him.

“Time's it?” he mumbles into the pillow, and Jason presses a quick kiss to his shoulder, then rolls off him.

He doesn't bother looking at the bedside clock, but it's probably way past noon, seeing how he's sleep-drunk enough for a decent amount of hours and the sun's already been coming up when they went to sleep. “Don't know,” he replies, settling onto his side. “Don't care.”

Dick yawns and props himself up on one elbow. He looks like he's more than just a little tempted to lie back down and nod off for a couple more hours, which is a plan that Jason wholeheartedly supports, but then his eyes widen. “Shit,” he says. “Shit, what day is it?”

“Friday, “says Jason, before cocking his head and scratching his ear. “I think?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Dick repeats, this time with feeling. “I have to be at a Wayne banquet at 3 PM.”

Groaning, Jason lets his head drop to the mattress. Here he goes again, daddy-o, finding new and creative ways to ruin their alone time. “Who the fuck schedules banquets for fucking three in the afternoon?”

“There'll be a presentation and everything, kids performing, that whole shebang.” Dick sits up and turns towards the bedside clock, and Jason follows his line of sight. It's cheerfully blinking a _2:35 PM_ at them. “Ah man, I still gotta get my tux from the dry-cleaner's too, and change at the manor. I'm gonna be late.”

“Well,” Jason says and inches closer to lay his head in Dick's lap, shooting him a lewd grin. “If you're already late...”

Dick swats at him. “For chrissake, do you ever think about anything else?”

“No,” Jason admits, refusing to feel the least bit contrite, and lets his eyes roam up and down Dick's chest. “Not while I'm around you.”

The faux-glare Dick sends him for that one only lasts a few seconds before it cracks into a fond, happy smile. He laughs, shoves at him. “Let me up.”

Jason does, reluctantly, and rewards himself by watching Dick hectically dart around the bedroom still naked, gathering clothes that look wearable, sniffing them, discarding about half with a disgusted huff, and then getting dressed mostly hoping around the bed on one leg. There are probably armies full of men and women out there who imagine what it'd be like dating the great Dick Grayson. None of them, Jason would bet, imagine it anything like this. He points that out, has a blood-stained T-shirt thrown into his face for his troubles.

“You're awful,” Dick complains, voice yet again muffled because he's still basically half-asleep and managed to trap himself in a polo shirt while pulling it over his head. Yep. Definitely a graceful wet dream come to life, right here.

Jason works himself up onto his knees and crawls across the mattress so he can help him. He nudges Dick's hip and Dick leans down, fidgeting as Jason straightens the shirt out, and steals a kiss once he's free.

“Any plans for today?” Dick asks, rolling the shirt down. He's almost presentable now, if still barefoot.

Jason lays back down and stretches, inching underneath the sheets again while Dick looks around for socks and shoes. “None whatsoever.”

“Good,” says Dick, with a wink. He probably thinks that's sexy. It's actually adorable. “Then don't you dare getting dressed, I'm gonna need some quality entertainment when I get back home.”

“Promises, promises,” Jason teases. He fakes a yawn, evades the old sock Dick throws at him this time, and reaches out for the bedside drawer to return fire with a fresh pair.

***

Without Dick around to act as a counterweight to his nervous energy, Jason manages to stay in bed for maybe another half hour. He doesn't fall back asleep, and eventually he grows bored enough to get up. He considers cooking, discards that thought after a quick sweep through Dick's cupboards. Settling on the couch with a bowl of cereal and a cut apple, he switches on the TV.

He's not even done channel-surfing when his cell phone rings. The number on the display is the Manor, and Jason sighs to himself, swiping with his thumb to answer the call. “What's he forgotten this time?”

“Master Jason.” Alfred's voice on the other end of the line is small, and Jason swears he sounds like he's been crying. The blood freezes in his veins, even before he hears the next few words. “There's been an accident. Master Richard is... I'm so sorry."

***

The conversation is brief. There's really not much to say: another driver on the highway lost control of their car and hit Dick's bike in a side impact collision, and when the ambulance arrived Dick was already dead. Alfred asks Jason to come join them at the Manor, and Jason agrees, because all words are equally meaningless in that moment and _yes okay_ are somehow the ones that spring into his head. He disconnects the call and puts his phone on the coffee table. The TV is still going, a morning news show going on about the financial market. Jason eats a few spoonfuls of the cereal, just because it sits there and that was what he was about to do, before, but his stomach turns the moment he swallows and he has to press his hand to his mouth in order to avoid throwing up. He stares at the bowl, at the apple sitting next to it, and sweeps them both of the table with one quick stroke of his hand. They land with a clatter, milk and soggy cereal spilling all over Dick's floor, and Jason stares at that instead.

This isn't real. This can't be fucking real.

He stands to clean up the mess, switches the TV off once he's done – his head is filled with static anyway, much louder than the mundane shit that gets aired so early in the morning – and heads to the bathroom for a shower. He's heading to the manor, and he's still reeking of sweat and sex and he can't face Bruce like that. Dick would be would be mortified. Bruce knows they're together, and no matter how much childish glee Jason would gain from rubbing it in like that, Dick always says he –

Dick said. Dick always _said_ that. Past tense. He's not going to _say_ anything ever again.

Jason can't tell whether he cries in the shower or just feels like he should, his whole body numb, the world around him faded to an intangible blur. A black hole has opened up inside his chest and keeps devouring any emotions that might crop up. The water that runs down his face might be mixing with tears, or it might not. His hands shake when he grabs for the towel afterwards, and he tells himself it's just the cold. He took a shower without turning up the space heater, and Dick's bathroom is a glacial cave. The actual heating in here has been broken since he moved in. He never got around to complaining to his landlord about that, and now he never will.

_Fuck._

Jason pads into the bedroom, naked, since he forgot to take fresh underwear with him. He's just done pulling on a randomly grabbed pair of pants when someone honks their car horn downstairs. Jason mumbles a curse at them and carries on getting dressed, but comprehends that it might have been meant for him when his phone chimes with a message a moment later. _Master Bruce sent you a car,_ it says. _Please don't drive on your own right now._

He walks to the window, frowning at the business limousine parked downstairs. Any other day he'd send a reply to Bruce, not Alfred, letting him know that he'd rather walk than using one of his fancy rich-asshole-cars, but his hands are still shaking and he stumbled over his own feet twice on the way from here from the goddamn bathroom, so, just this once, a driver might actually be a good idea.

***

Jason literally runs into Bruce upon his arrival at the Manor, and for a long moment, they simply stare at each other. It's a testament to how shaken he is that Bruce steps back first, clearing his throat.

“I'm on my way to the coroner’s office for the identification,” he says. One hand comes up to first pull his tie away from his neck, like it's suffocating him, and then maneuver it back into place. “I'll be back soon. Everyone else is inside, you can just – “

Jason shakes his head. “I'm coming with you.”

He hadn't thought about that until now, but he _needs_ to see Dick. Not all pretty and dolled up and nearly life-like in a casket, but the cruel reality of his passing. He needs to see the pale and broken dead body on a cold, bare metal slap. Otherwise he'll never believe Dick's really gone, will never manage to wrap his head around the loss and accept that it really happened.

Bruce's expression doesn't change. He inhales and briefly shuts his eyes, and Jason is ready to scream and fight. But Bruce doesn't tell him no. He nods, gesturing for Jason to follow him to another waiting car.

***

Reality is indeed cruel. Painful. Brutal, like a punch to the gut. It does, however, manage to drive the point home.

On their way back to the Manor, watching the scenery change as their driver switches onto the exact highway where Dick's blood is still drying on the pavement, a part of Jason kind of wishes he could have gone on pretending.

***

The family gathers in the batcave, even though Jason privately thinks it doesn't make sense. This is a civilian matter, a family tragedy so fundamental that neither status nor popularity nor nighttime activities separate them from the any other family, some Millers or Smiths a few miles further into the city, in a suburban home or a cheap apartment building. And yet, once he sat down on one of the chairs in front of Bruce's overgrown computer, Jason understand why they all gravitated down here. It's a step further from reality. It's where they meet in masks and talk about beating up meta-powered villains. It makes normal, civilian problems feel smaller.

And yet the black hole in Jason's chest keeps getting bigger and bigger with every passing second.

Tim clear his throat. “I've done a lot of research into Ra's and the League a few years back. Lots of files and data. I'm sure I could locate – “

“The fuck you will,” Jason hisses, and every pair of eyes in the room snaps in his direction.

“And who gave you the right to decided that?” Tim defends. “We should have a vote. Discuss this. It's still early enough, we don't have to lose him.”

A discussion erupts, alright. Steph and Damian and Tim are in favor. Barbara argues against it. Alfred doesn't offer an opinion, attempts to keep the conversation civil with a voice that is too thin and hesitant for him. Bruce doesn't say anything.

And if Bruce doesn't call them to order, doesn't attempt to shake some sense into them, then Jason might have to bite that bullet. “No,” he says, loud, with enough authority to leave the others in stunned silence. “Dick died happy. From what we know so far, he was dead on impact, no fear or pain or suffering. Me and him, we woke up this morning and we joked around and then he left to be with you guys. Everything was fine. _He was happy._ I'm not going to let anyone taint that out of a selfish desire to get him back. None of you know what it's like to die and get dunked into that goddamn pit and climb back out raging mad. So, no. That's my vote. No, we're not doing that to him.”

***

They bury him on a Thursday. It's a bright and sunny afternoon, one of the last truly warm ones of the fading summer, and it makes Jason irrationally angry. He feels like the sky should be mourning with them, raindrops falling from the sky like the tears of a weeping deity, and then he feels stupid for _that_ thought. Jason has been to more funerals than he cares to admit, sat on the sidelines for a few more, and not one of them happened in the rain.

Then again, none of them were for Dick. If the heavens should weep for anyone, it's him.

The actual service flies by in a blur. Jason doesn't cry either; he hasn't cried once, and he desperately wants to, yearns for it like it might somehow he be cleansing. But he's not even allowed that much, so he marches in between his so-called family, head bowed, hands in his pockets, and he doesn't look at anyone they walk past. And they walk through a lot of people; as funerals go, he supposes, it's rather crowded. Not like that's much of a surprise.

Afterward, when everyone else but the actual and honorable Waynes has left, Jason strolls back to the grave. Cemetery staff have already started to shovel it shut. All that remains of Dick is a mound of earth, a gravestone, and a line of flowers waiting to be planted already stacked on the side.

Jason doesn't know where to go. For the last six months, home was Dick's apartment, but... he can hardly go back there alone, claim it as his. He's still got a few safe houses around the city, and he's shuddering at the mere thought at holing up there alone.

As if he's heard him, known somehow, Tim clears his throat somewhere behind him. Jason almost jumps at the sound.

"You shouldn't be on your own right now," Tim says, and Jason scoffs.

“Why?” he snaps. “Because you're afraid I'll do something drastic and violent and un-bat-like now that he's gone?”

And the thing is, Jason might have, if he had a target for his anger. But he doesn't and it makes all this even more surreal. There's nothing to do after the funeral. There is no one to hunt down and possibly kill because _Dick is dead_ and Jason has never been above revenge. It's no one's fault, really, except maybe a little Dick's own. He is – has been, _past tense_ – a wild driver, and the reports say he's been peeling around that intersection a little bit too fast. The other party in the accident is a father of three who has been shaking like a leaf during the whole service, surrounded by his wife and children, and Jason can't help but command him for having the guts and the honor to show up at all. So there's nothing to do. There's nothing to do but this, burying the one person in his life he wasn't prepared to lose and then trying to move on.

Yeah. Sure. _Move on_.

“No, asshole.” Tim steps around to him, and his expression is unbearably soft. “Because you lost your...”

He pauses and swallows around the next word; Tim, much like Bruce and the demon spawn, have never really made their peace with Dick's and Jason's relationship. Brothers, you see. In arms, on paper, whatever. Jason never cared.

“Your partner,” Tim finally finishes, and Jason reels around on him. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't see any way in which he'll manage to hang around that band of do-gooders and not strangle any one of them within the day. “Your boyfriend. Someone you loved.”

"Well, he shouldn't be dead.” He stares Tim down, glares seething hate at him because he's the only one volunteering his presence, the only one available. “So I guess nothing is as it _should_ be."

Tim presses his lips together into a thin line, clearly swallowing whatever other stale attempt and comfort he had of his sleeve. He withstands the sour look for another minute, then shoves both hands into his suit pockets and walks away.

***

It's the last Jason sees of the family for a good long while.


	2. Chapter 2

Central City feels like another universe. It’s by no means peaceful, cities of that size never are, but the mood is different here. In Gotham, the natives can be spotted by the way they walk the streets with their heads slightly inclined and their steps just a tad too fast, as if moving through a hostile darkness even during the light of day. No one walks quite like that in Central City, not even during the night. Their signature hero is different too; a ray of hope, rather than a dark figure blending into dark streets.

Patrol isn’t the same either.

Jason hasn’t consulted any statistics about it, but for someone born and raised and trained in Gotham it does seem less busy in terms of the work load for their profession. Maybe that’s why The Flash gets by with one teenage sidekick instead of a whole bunch of them. Jason snorts at that thought, and a familiar ache shoots through his heart. The wrong train of thought, too close to what he lost. He left home so that he wouldn’t be reminded of Dick wherever he turns his head, it’s why he ignored Bludhaven entirely and hasn’t talked to Wally once since he and Roy arrived in the city, and here he is, conjuring up the memories almost on purpose instead.

Sirens roar in the distance. A tell-tale streak of red and yellow light rushes through the streets seconds later, and Jason sighs to himself. He’s out of place here. He’s not needed, at least not as Red Hood, surrounded by a history that’s as Gotham as it gets. Not as a hero either; he’s never really been one anyway. He’ll stick to being the weird mix of detective-for-hire and mercenary that Roy made them into – wait for the next job and keep out of Central City’s business otherwise.

***

No matter the city or place, Roy's taste in safehouses continues to suck. They can be rundown, moldy, with shitty or no heating and a bathroom down a freezing cold hall, for all that Roy cares, as long as they have enough space for a workshop. Jason somewhat put his foot down with this one, which means it's a lot more livable than most of the dumps they've roomed in for the past year, but it's still drafty and once an hour a train rattles by so closely that Jason can't even hear his own thoughts for a few seconds.

Not like he's enjoying peaceful silence, otherwise. Roy is in said workshop, and he isn't exactly working quietly. Reading despite the noise, however, is a skill that Jason developed way before they joined up the first time.

He doesn't hear is phone ring. He sees the screen light up, out of the corner of his eyes, and bends to retrieve it, then immediately throws it back onto the table. Tim's number, and well, no. Whatever shitstorm might be raging in Gotham again, they can solve it without him. He's not going back.

The screen goes dark when the call goes to voicemail. It lights up again a few seconds later. It lights up a third time, falls dark, rinse and repeat. Jason ignores six calls in a row, and there's a ball of nervous energy forming in the pit of his stomach. Must be something serious. But he's out, dammit, he can't do Gotham without Dick, and even the replacement will have to wrap his head around that at some point.

The calls finally stop. Jason goes back to reading his book. The nervousness will fade eventually.

Moments later, Roy yells Jason's name and trudges into the room, waving his own phone. “It's Drake for you. Sounds urgent.”

Jason glares at him and snatches the phone out of his hands. They flip each other off as Roy walks back into his workshop, muttering something about bad luck and a poor taste in friends.

“What the _fuck_ do you want?” Jason hisses into the phone.

“Jason,” Tim says, and he sounds small and confused. He sounds like he cried. Jason's annoyance at him doesn't quite evaporate yet, but it dissipates just a little. “You need to come home. We found...” He takes a deep breath, and Jason can hear other voices in the background, low, soothing, but also seeming upset. “It's about Dick. I can't really explain on the phone, you'll have to see, but, Jason. Please come back. You need to come back.”

He's crying. He's begging, and none of the bats get there easily. Jason still balks at the idea of going back to Gotham, much less to the damn Manor, chitchatting with the family like the best among the hasn't been torn out of their middle, but he's starting to get the feeling that this might be different. It sure doesn't sound like a case, or the latest meta invasion. Tim hasn't even cried during the funeral. Something must be very, very wrong.

Jason runs a hand down his face, closes his eyes, curses under his breath. “Okay, fine,” he says. “I'm on my way.”

***

The gathered crowd of chattering junior bats parts before him like the sea, the second he steps off the stairs and walks into the batcave proper. Alfred, upon opening the door, just repeated Tim's cryptic _you'll have to see_ and Jason wants to strangle the lot of them. He hates surprises, and he's rather sure whatever he's about to lay eyes on here won't do much to change his opinion.

In a far corner of the cave, a cage has been built. There's really no other word for it; bulletproof glass instead of metal bars and a bed instead of a cot, the toilet shielded from view, but it's still very obviously a _cage_. Bruce and Barbara stand in front of it, talking under their breath with shocked and concerned faces, shielding the inhabitant of the glass cage from view, and the very fact that the big bad Bat is indeed obviously shaken means that, at this point, Jason is all but vibrating out of his skin with nerves.

“Okay, B,” Jason says, loud and booming, and he refuses to feel sorry for that. “Spill. Tell me who you're keeping in there, and why that's any of my business.”

Bruce does not say anything. He simply exchanges a glance with Barbara and they both step away.

Jason chokes on his next breath. The ground gets pulled from under him like a cheap rug, and all of a sudden his legs almost give out. His gaze flickers to Bruce, looking to him for an explanation, and then back to the person in the cage. And he must be seeing things. This must be a hallucination, or a very cruel joke.

Because the person in the cage is _Dick_.

He looks different, skin pale, features haggard, expression haunted, but it's definitely him. No doubt whatsoever. He sits on the floor by the foot of the bed, legs folded underneath him, clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants that Jason recognizes, but having gained enough extra build that the fabric is straining around his arms and thighs now. Bruce is keeping Jason's dead boyfriend in a cage, and nothing at all makes sense anymore.

“How?” Jason presses out between clenched teeth. “Don't tell me you went and – “

Bruce shakes his head. “No. It wasn't the pit. Gordon called me yesterday, because he picked” – here he trails off, as if he can't bring Dick's name past his lips – “him up on the scene of a murder. The victim was a member of the city council. She was run through with a sword, and he was found covered in her blood.”

Back from the dead. The sickly pallor. The choice of victim, and mode of execution. Jason has seen this before. They all did. “A talon?”

Bruce nods and looks down. “He had the chemicals in his body from childhood. I confirmed that when we found out about his father's bloodline.”

Although he might not say it out loud, the self-flagellation shows on Bruce's face, clear as day. He's beating himself for not having foreseen this development. Jason would point out that none of them had, that Bruce isn't the sole person responsible here, but he doesn't feel like easing Bruce's conscience right now. He's rather more in the mood for a shouting match, has some difficulty biting his lips on a sarcastic comment. He lacks the energy for either.

“I'm going to get settled in my old room and take a shower,” he announces, because most of all he needs some time alone to wrap his head around it all.

***

He's back down in the cave within the hour, and way before he can even being comprehending the idea that Dick is back, but isn't Dick anymore. The pull to be with him remains strong, though, irresistible, and it doesn't matter that all Dick does down there in is cage is stare at the wall and, alternately, eye them all with obvious suspicion. Jason can't hold that mistrust against him; they're all strangers to him and they're keeping him locked up. Sure, there's little doubt he'd attack them if given half the chance, but still, _cage_.

Jason sits with his back to the glass from the other side, opposite the bed, and watches Dick right back.

The harsh light in the cage makes him look even more like the living corpse he is. His skin, what little of it is visible above his collar and on his wrists and feet, carries more scars than Jason remembers. His expression is blank and empty, his eyes are still a beautiful bright blue but they're lifeless and... well, dead, for lack of a better term.

Jason startles when not-Dick turns to look at him head-on and tilts his head, frowning. Jason hefts an eyebrow, too taken aback for a verbal response, and the silent question is met with an answer.

“Hungry,” not-Dick says, pointing to himself. “They ought to have fed him hours ago.”

And that, Jason guesses, answers the question as to whether the Court's very own army of zombies still needs to eat. Not like he thought of that yet; judging from the hectic looks being exchanged around the cave, neither did anyone else.

But Jason's the one that eerie, dead gaze is focused on right now, and so, improvising, he asks, “What would you like to eat?”

Not-Dick scratches his temple, pursing his lips, looking rather like a child trying to figure out how to answer an important question. “He likes waffles,” the decision comes eventually, and then, shrinking into himself like a child having been caught with the fridge door open to help himself to some ice cream, he adds, “And juice, please.”

Leave it to Dick to get killed and resurrected and kept as an undead assassin for a year, and still retain his sweet tooth. Jason snorts a laugh. “Sure,” he says, ignoring the concerned side glances from the rest of the family, like they're worried he's circling the edge towards hysteria. They can keep their concern; other bats wondering about his mental state still rubs a sore spot. “Coming right up.”

They look even more concerned when Jason casually opens the door of the glass cage fifteen minutes later to slide in a plate with waffles and a tetra pak of fruit juice. Most of them, minus Bruce, are actually gaping when not-Dick nods his thanks, takes the food, and retreats back towards his bed.

***

Jason stays sat in front of the cage until he starts drifting into fitful sleeps, every time waking himself up by losing his balance and tilting to the side. The talon doesn't seem to get tired; he keeps watching Jason through the glass, head cocked, as if studying him, memorizing him – or _remembering_ him. But that might be wishful thinking. He's just as likely to be imagining the best way to flay and dissect Jason and pack him up in a neat little package to bring back to his masters.

Jason shakes his head. Following that train of thought will be a great way to give himself nightmares.

Speaking of which, he might need some real sleep, in an actual bed. Not-Dick won't be alone down here, at least one or two of the kids keep lingering around as well. Bruce has been suspiciously absent for a few hours now, which is both a surprise and disgustingly in character. Nothing, not even a resurrected dead son, can keep Batman off the streets.

But, point is, not-Dick won't be on his own. He might not even notice, nor care, that Jason's gone. There's no damn reason to keep torturing himself down here, and he needs to be somewhere else. Physically. Somewhere he can close his eyes and not hear Dick's breathing – and it still is _Dick's breathing_ , the sound so familiar from so many nights spend falling asleep next to one another. Somewhere he can pretend the world hasn't been tilted of its axis when he came down here and laid eyes on that damn glass cage.

He rubs a hand down his face and stands, waving at Tim and Cass, the current baby bats on duty, as he marches past them towards the stairs.

***

A bone-chilling scream rouses Jason from sleep, and it takes him a few seconds to recognize the shrill voice and piece together the syllables. It's a name. It's his name. It's Dick screaming his name.

Jason shoots bolt-upright in the bed, suddenly wide awake. His heart beats a wild rhythm against his ribcage, grief and hope in a tangle, past and present superimposed, and then reality comes rushing back in. Dick is still dead, except for how he isn't. And the scream wasn't part of a bad dream; it continues even now. Not-Dick, the talon, is screaming for him, and Jason swings his legs out of bad and reaches for his clothes without conscious thought. He can't not answer that call, can't ignore the desperation in it, despite knowing that the person that calls for him isn't Dick anymore. Hell, they're not sure yet he's still a person at all, cruel as that thought may be, or merely a puppet kept walking forward because it's infused with the will of its masters.

That scream, though, does not sound like something the Court would have planned for in their weapons. It sounds like bare need, a desperate plea, fully and heartbreakingly human.

And it ceases the second Jason steps into view of the glass cage.

The talon stands in front of the cage's door, stance wide, both hands pressed to the pane, breathing hard, eyes huge and now focused exclusively on Jason.

“Hey,” Jason says, voice low, hands help up in front of himself. “Hey, I'm here. What's wrong?”

Not-Dick lowers his head, nostrils flaring. “He... you.”

That makes literally zero sense, but he says it with such urgency that it nevertheless pulls at Jason's scarred and confused mess of a heart. He screws his eyes shut, sighs, opens them again and puts one hand over the glass, just where not-Dick's still sits. “I'm not going away again,” he says, and not-Dick looks back up. “Okay? Yeah? I'll stay here. Right here, where you can see me. Is that what you want?”

The talon looks around hectically, like he expects punishment for expressing a selfish desire, and then nods his head. He trots back to his bed and lies down, flat on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, and watches as Jason asks Cass to organize him a folding cot, is still watching as she returns with one, as they set it up, as Jason lies down as well and tries to get comfortable enough to fall back asleep.

***

The family board meeting happens the next morning, after patrol, and for a solid two minutes everyone just awkwardly stares at the table top and the breakfast Alfred put in front of them.

Cass turns out to be the brave one, voicing what's likely dancing through everyone's mind. “He wouldn't want to live like that.”

She's right, he wouldn't. Jason argued against resurrecting him for exactly that reason, among others, and this is so much worse than being dragged through the pit. He should agree with her, but he can't bring himself to say as much.

Barbara sighs, playing with an errant lock of red hair that's fallen out of her haphazard after-shower-updo. “So what does that mean? We kill him again, for good? Just like that?”

She looks around the table; no one meets her eyes. Bruce stays silent, face impenetrable, like stone. Damian does his best to imitate him – he hasn't been allowed into the cave, but he's smart enough to have a good guess of what not-Dick's like, based on that fact alone – and Tim makes a tortured little sound.

“Maybe that's the most humane solution,” he murmurs, face reddening as if in shame before he even finishes the sentence. His voice makes him sound younger than his years – or maybe it makes him sound exactly his actual age. They all grow up too fast around here.

Jason shakes his head at him, anyway, and snorts. “That's rich. Weren't you the one who suggested we find ourselves a laza – “

“And I was _wrong_ ,” Tim interrupts, voice going unsteady. “Seeing him like that....”

The room falls quiet again after that, and Jason guesses this means the mercy-killing option has been weighed and discarded for the moment. He finds himself glad about that; he can still hear the talon's scream, recall his upset Jason's absence. Right now he's silent, however. Jason explained to him that he'll be back real soon, certainly before sleep time, and the talon looked unhappy but seems to have understood. Something of Dick is still in there, Jason's sure, and he can't decide whether that makes the current situation any better or indeed makes it a lot worse.

“He hasn't tried to hurt us yet,” Bruce points out into the silence, and everyone's heads snap in his direction. “He hasn't even attempted to get out his cage, and he didn't try and pull any tricks when Jason went in to feed him.” A frown pulls at Bruce's lips, and it's the most emotion he's shown throughout the whole conversation. “We can't justify an execution. He's a prisoner here because we're uniquely equipped to handle him, not because we're expected to get rid of him.”

Unexpected relief washes through Jason. He didn't really expect Bruce to vote for the radical solution – Batman's rules hang over everything he does, after all – but to hear him reason out loud on not-Dick's behalf is still reassuring.

***

There’s not much to do in the cave, while keeping watch, and Jason refuses to give in and get involved in bat business by habit. Because naturally that continues; he’s starting to understand the comfort that comes with routine, even, or especially, in the face of the impossible. But Jason isn’t looking for comfort. He wouldn’t know how to handle that yet.

He startles when someone clears their throat behind them. And of course it’s Damian; no one else could move unheard in the same way, like a ghost, a demon.

The kid nods in greeting when Jason turns. “Todd. I expected you’d be here. Good afternoon.”

Jason nods back, but Damian’s attention has already wandered towards the cage. In theory, he’s still not allowed down here, but Jason supposed that was never what stopped him. Damian didn’t come down here because Damian didn’t _want_ to come here. They all lost a son and a brother. Jason lost a lover. Damian lost something like a parent, and Jason faintly remembers the unique pain of that particular brand of loss.

Damian swallows hard, rubs his eyes with his knuckles, and blinks quickly as he watches the talon pace behind the glass. He visibly shudders when the talon freezes and inclines his head, holding it at an angle as his eyes roam all over the kid.

“Robin,” the talon declares, smiling, and both Jason and Damian inhale in surprise.

The kid’s gaze flickers towards Jason. “Does he...” Damian starts, then his words peter out.

“I don’t know,” Jason says, honestly. “I kinda suspected he recognizes us in some way, but he hasn’t identified anyone by name yet.” He shrugs. “Or codename for that matter.”

Damian rubs at his eyes once more, but then his back straightens. He stands tall and keeps himself very still. His expression hardens. He huffs and turns on his heels.

“I trust you’ll keep me apprised of any changes in his... condition,” he says, and stalks towards the stairs with his hands in his trouser pockets and his head held high.

All this must be more than he can bear. Jason can’t blame him for running, for pretending he’s entirely made of stone and awkward manners and that there’s no room for emotion in his small frame. It might not be healthy, and Jason makes a mental note to inform Alfred of the kid’s trip into temporarily forbidden territory so it can be addressed, but no matter how fond Jason’s gotten of the youngest Wayne, Damian and him never quite reached the point where they could _talk_ in more than polite platitudes.

Besides, Jason is the last person to criticize anyone else for their subpar coping mechanisms.

***

The talon is whimpering in his cage. Jason can't seen him, has resisted looking for a solid five minutes now, but he can _hear_ it. Lying on his own cot, arms crossed behind his head, the cave empty except for the two of them while the rest of the family is either sleeping the sleep of the righteous or pursuing real life duties. Jason doesn't have a real life, being officially dead and all, and he sure isn't righteous. He's down here, keeping watch over not-Dick like it's his only purpose in life.

“What's going on?” Jason asks him, still not turning to look. “Hungry? Thirsty? Or finally developing a toothache from all the sweets and baked goods you keep demanding I bring you?”

“Hurts,” the talon answers, and Jason works himself up onto his elbows, done trying to feign indifference. “Help him. Please.”

Not something Jason needs to be told twice. He stands, hesitates bit at the door – he should at least call one of the others down here, wait for backup – but the talon cringes where he's sitting cross-legged on his bed, looks up with beautiful blue eyes that are still too familiar, and Jason rushes into the cage.

He crouches by the bed. “Where does it hurt?”

With a wince, not-Dick presses his palms to his temple. Then he moves his hands to hover over his chest, near his heart. “Everywhere. He is confused, so confused it hurts.”

“You do remember,” Jason whispers. It's not a question; he couldn't bear _asking_ just for the talon to deny his assumption.

“He went to a loud place with you and the boy,” the talon says, folding his hands in his lap, and the expression on his face is almost like a nostalgic smile. There's even some life in his eyes.” Lots of colors, and sweets, and people. Laughing people. Music. He dropped his ice cream and you gave him yours.”

That was supposed to be their first actual date, the first time they went somewhere together as a couple, for fun, and not as part of Batman's pool of apprentices, but Damian had a fight with Bruce earlier that day and Dick didn’t have the heart to send him away when he appeared on their doorstep. So Dick had ushered all of them together to the fun fair, despite mutual protest. Instead of something saccharine and romantic, it had been the first time Jason began to understand the relationship between Dick and the kid, away from the costumes, away from Batman and Robin.

“You held him close when you slept,” not-Dick continues. “Every night. There was no other place in the world he felt so safe. You still keep him calm, now. Because of how he felt then.”

Jason stares at the talon, emotions doing an impossible somersault in the pit of his stomach, and the talon stares back at him with his head cocked. He reaches out and puts his hand on Jason's cheek, and Jason leans into the touch on instinct and muscle memory. Not-Dick leans forward. Jason rises up to meet him halfway. He doesn't taste like Dick did, not really, but his lips are soft and the small sigh he gives when Jason wraps his arms around the other's neck sounds exactly the same as it used to.

This is a mistake. Not the first Jason's made since he heard about the talon; he should have run the minute he saw this damn cage, saw the figure inside. But he didn't. Instead he stayed and reveled in that feeling of scar tissue being scratched so much and so hard it starts aching again, maybe even bleeding, because the pain is easier to bear than the constant itch of a wound that's started to scab over. It doesn't matter that said itch might be a sign of healing.

It never matters.

The talon lifts his arms as if to hug him back. Jason is ready to fill in the gaps with memories and make an even worse mistake, a whole series of them really, and some distant part of him reacts with indescribable relief when the talon's hands settle around his neck in a way that's decidedly not romantic – at least not without safewords and some negotiation beforehand.

He doesn't resist. He doesn't fight. He knows what's going to happen if he does, and he doesn't want to hurt any version of Dick. He can't. He won't.

The world goes black, and the pressure around his neck lessens. _Oh._ At least the talon's going to leave him alive, then.

***

Jason's head throbs. His sense of equilibrium is taking him on a bit of a carousel ride. The realization that he's laid out on something soft, surrounded by a scent that's kind of like Dick's but also absolutely, totally not at all the same, hits him like a hook to the jaw. He rights himself, blinking, one hand rising to the fresh bruises on his neck, and sends a hectic glance around the room for the talon. Who knows how long he has been out cold, the talon could have done so much damage in the meantime, the others had no idea what was coming for them –

A familiar whimper draws Jason's attention to the far side of the cage, near the open door. There he is, the talon, sitting on the floor, knees hugged to his chest, face buried between them, rocking slowly back and forth. It's impossible to tell whether he never got any further or came back down here after wreaking havoc upstairs, but at least he isn't, like, covered in blood and entrails or some shit.

The talon whips his head up in Jason’s direction, likely having noticed that Jason returned to consciousness. “He wants to stay here. No more owls. Not going back.”

“Then stay,” Jason says, rubbing his temples. “As long as you didn’t kill or seriously injure anyone here, I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Not-Dick shakes his head emphatically. "Can't abandon the mission. They'll hurt him."

The remaining brain-fog from getting knocked out causes a lag in Jason’s processing time. He smiles in an attempt at reassurance. "No, no. Who? Me? Damian? Don't worry, we're all here, there's no one they can get to – "

The wild panic on the talon’s face remains unchanged, and Jason slowly puts the _he_ into context. From the moment he first spoke, the talon has been referring to himself in third person. He’s not talking about anyone else. And as if to reiterate, to explain his fear, not-Dick lifts his shirt to show his bare back. It reveals scar tissue above scar tissue, a lot more than Jason remembers from before, and some very obviously resulting from harsh corporeal punishment. Lash marks, burn marks, layers of hurt etched into his body.

"Oh fuck, no," Jason says, whispers it, really, and he’s on his feet in an instant. He crouches down beside the talon and pulls him – trembling, breathing hard – into his arms. “They’re never getting you back. You hear me? No one will ever hurt you again. Anyone who tries will have to go through me first, I promise.”

The creature Jason’s holding so tight, rocking him gently, attempted to betray them all. Jason can recognize the plan now, see it clearly; he was sent here to attack them from the inside. It’s a great strategy, really, using their weakest spots, their care for one another, to eradicate them.

But it didn’t work. Whatever remains of Dick, his strength and his love for those he considers family, proved stronger than brainwashing and torture. Jason isn’t entirely sure what that means. For the talon. For him. For everyone else. He is however, certain about one simple thing.

Jason will keep the promise he just gave. He’ll protect every version of Dick against whoever steps into their path, be they foe or friend. Jason would even, if necessarily, save it from the evil planted within it.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).
> 
> And, in before questions about a possible continuation... not sure yet, but it's, say, a solid maybe? ;)


End file.
